


Stallion and Mare

by BoomyMcBlasty



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Post-Time Skip, Pre-Time Skip, Spoilers for the Blue Lions route, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-12 21:48:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20571446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoomyMcBlasty/pseuds/BoomyMcBlasty
Summary: At the end of the novel, Sylvain’s eyes sting. A part of him wants to share Seriane’s tale with Ingrid, because she would love the valiant lady knight and her resolve and strength.Another part of him wants to shield her from the tragic ending and spare her the tears.“Oh.”Now he understands. He’s in love with Ingrid.A collection of fragments about Sylvain's love for Ingrid, from their academy days to the war.Spoilers for the Ingrid support chains with Sylvain, Felix, Dedue, Ignatz, Dorothea and Bernadetta.





	Stallion and Mare

Sylvain is only at the training grounds because he has been caught sneaking out one too many times, and no amount of silvery words made Professor Byleth budge. He’s on a training schedule and he can’t practice alone, no siree. He needs two partners and their signatures at the end of each scheduled sparring session. 

Of course, Sylvain knows better than the instructor: he asked Ingrid and Felix to train with him. They’re busy smacking each other with sticks of various degrees of sharpness, while he relaxes on the sidelines with a novel and pretends to conjure a spell when they look his way.

“Cut your hair.” Felix’s harsh tone makes Sylvain look up from his novel. 

Said Felix is seething, hands on his knees and weapon forgotten on the ground.

Ingrid, lance still at hand, looks positively radiant. It’s a lovely look on her—if only she were more mellow….

“You know I can’t, Felix.” She fixes her bangs with her fingers. Her hair has gotten quite long… when they were children, she used to whine all the time about how impractical it was.

“Then tie it properly.” Felix collects his wooden sword from the ground. “I can grab it with ease, and so can the bandits of this month’s assignment.”

That’s unfair. He can’t  _ not  _ comment on that. “Hair pulling? Kinky…” 

Oops. They both turn towards him, and Sylvain hides his face in the book.

They scold him at the same time. “Shut up, Sylvain.”

Ingrid starts walking towards him and he hides the novel behind his back. “That doesn’t look like a magic tome.”

Sylvain grimaces. His brain tries to scramble together a reply, but there’s no need for it. Felix comes to his rescue, grabbing Ingrid’s soft braid from behind.

“Eek!”

That was a  _ very cute _ yelp. 

Felix, as always, is unbothered. “ _ Eek _ ?” He undoes her braid and combs her hair with his fingers.

“Felix, what are you doing?” Is Ingrid blushing? She is. Sylvain is  _ scandalized _ . They grow up so fast...

Felix collects her hair in a ponytail on her nape and works his way upwards, making the ponytail higher and higher.

She doesn’t look half bad. “What do you know, hair like this suits you, Ingrid.”

That makes her blush deeper. She is good at ignoring it. “Sylvain, must you?”

Felix, with a pout and cheeks on fire, uses Ingrid’s hair tie to secure the ponytail on top of her head. “Something like this.”

Ingrid shakes her head a couple of times, and her hair swings at the side of her face. “I wonder how Petra manages… it feels so heavy.”

With a groan, Felix undoes his bun. His hair has gotten longer as well. He looks remarkably like Rodrigue… and like Glenn.

“Stay still.” Felix twists and twirls the blonde locks to fashion a bun, similar to his own, and secures it with his own hair tie. “Better?”

The bun is nice and tidy, and Felix looks almost proud.

Sylvain claps politely. “You look ravish—”

“Shut up, Sylvain.” Felix turns his attention back to Ingrid. “Now it’s impossible for someone to grab your hair when you get closer.”

Ah, of course. Felix didn’t just very romantically take care of Ingrid’s hair—of course not, it was for  _ battle _ .

“How does it look at the front?” Ingrid turns, spear still at hand.

When her eyes fall on Felix, her smile shatters. The spear falls on the ground.

This is trouble. Sylvain watches in horror as Ingrid touches one of Felix’s long locks.

_ Don’t say it. Don’t say it. _

“You… look just like Glenn.”

Felix slaps away her hand and turns to leave. He doesn’t look back, not even when Ingrid falls on her knees, sobbing.

Great. Absolutely fantastic. Sylvain goes to pat Ingrid’s shoulder, looking at the entrance of the training grounds. Felix slams the gates shut.

*

The next day, Felix shows up to class looking his crankiest: lips drawn in a thin line, deep frown, hands balled into fists. 

During the first short break in between classes, Mercedes and Annette ask Professor Byleth about Ingrid. She won’t be in class for a couple of days, according to the instructor.

_ Days _ . Damn. Did it hit her that hard?

Who is Sylvain kidding. They all know that Glenn is still a sore spot for her— _ understatement of the century _ . She wasn’t herself for months after the Tragedy. No treats from Fhirdiad, no fancy new combs for her horse could drag her out of her room. He remembers Count Galatea wiping a stray tear outside of Ingrid’s room, giving up on her.

  
Sylvain shoots a glance at Felix, who’s currently burning holes into his notes with a mean expression. No way in hell they’re training together later—Sylvain likes to be alive, thank you very much.

*

Sylvain crouches next to the window of the Blue Lions House. Who thought using stained glass was a good idea? He can barely see inside.

Dimitri and Felix are bickering by the entrance—he can hear them—and the others are all turned towards the two. There is, of course, no sign of Ingrid. Is the professor by the blackboard, or is that...

Someone clears her throat behind him.

“Professor!”

Sylvain turns towards Professor Byleth and flashes her his best smile. The instructor cocks an eyebrow, looking unimpressed as ever. His charms don’t work on her, of course.

“I was… uhm…” He stands up and dusts his pants. What’s his excuse?

The professor doesn’t let him humiliate himself. “Ingrid extended her leave of absence.”

Sylvain blinks twice.  _ That’s bad _ .  _ Also, why is she telling me this? _

She points at the dorms, and the long, loose sleeves of her coat move with her arm. “You are one of her oldest friends.”

It takes him a while to understand; fortunately, she is a patient woman. “You want me to drag her out of her room?”

Her nod is all he needs. “Leave it to me. Thank you, Professor!”

“Not a word of this to the rest of the faculty, or I’ll extend your  _ special  _ training regime.” She opens the House’s door and slides inside. 

Sylvain makes his way to the dorms. He needs a plan. What worked the last time? It wasn’t treats—he rules out visiting the kitchens—or clothes or horses—he hasn’t been to the stables in a while.

He looks up to her window. What made her come out?

He climbs the stairs to the second floor. What made her… oh.

It was him. He needed help with something… yes, he needed a place to hide from Gwendal!

A plan forms in his mind in less than a second, and he runs up the stairwell.

He knocks twice, fast, on her door.

“Ingrid?” He fills his voice with urgency, and knocks again, louder. “Ingrid, please, open up. I need your help!”

He hears a  _ thud!  _ and the rustling of clothes. The door unlocks and open slightly, and he takes the chance to slide inside the room. He closes the door with his back.

“Thank the Goddess.”

“Hey…” Ingrid’s indignation sounds weak.

Her eyes are puffy and red, and her hair is a tangled mess. The thick robe she’s using to cover herself up is at the same time too big and too short.

“Why are you barging in my room like that?” She crosses her arms. “What did you do now?” 

“Well, I…” Sylvain shoots her a charming grin. “I might have been chased by someone who knows where my room is.”

“Is that why you’re hiding in mine?”

“Ingrid, my savior, I knew you’d understand.”

She shakes her head. “No, I really don’t.”

She looks rough, but her room is pretty tidy for someone who has not left it for quite a while.

Sylvain leans on the door. “How long have you been holed up here?”

Four days. She’s been gone for four days.

She looks outside the window. “I don’t know.”

“Mmh.” Sylvain sits on the only chair in the room, and Ingrid takes the bed. The robe is really too short, and exposes part of her legs. He shoves that information away and focuses on her face.

She covers her mouth. “I must look horrible.”

He nods. “Quite terrible. Felix did a number on you.”

“He didn’t do anything.” She bites her bottom lip. “ It was all my doing. I must apologize to him.”

“Well, that’s easy.”

She sighs.

“You just need to bat your eyelashes and say:  _ Felix, I am so sorry~ _ and he’ll mutter something like:  _ Whatever, it’s not like I care _ , and everything will be back to normal.”

She pouts and shows him her fist. “First of all, I don’t speak like that.” Ah, yes, she’s coming back.

Sylvain waves away her complaint.

“And second… what do you mean  _ back to normal _ ? I am normal.”

_ No, you are not. _ “I have never seen Felix look so murderous.”

Ingrid hides her face in her hands. “My father won’t hear the end of it.”

That catches Sylvain’s attention. “What’s your father got to do with it?”

Ingrid fixes her robe—Sylvain realizes in that moment that it’s too big yet too short because it belongs to Count Galatea. Is Ingrid’s House struggling that much? 

“My father was talking with Lord Rodrigue about renewing the marriage proposal our Houses made years ago.”

Sylvain feels the blood drain from his face. “They want you and Felix to marry?”

“Nothing is final just yet.”

As if… as if it makes any difference. “But you two knew.”

“Yes.”

Sylvain feels like punching the wall. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

It’s an irrational feeling, the rage that boils and swirls in his veins, and he can’t pinpoint the exact cause. 

The two of them are the same. A stallion to stud, a mare to breed.

Sylvain has always known that. He is almost relieved about the ugly little accident in the training grounds. Ingrid can’t possibly be good for Felix—she caused him such distress, being still so attached to his dead brother. The accident has ruined their chance to be good for each other.

Sylvain is glad that Felix decided to mess with Ingrid’s hair.

He suppresses a dark chuckle, shoves away those thoughts. He looks at Ingrid, demands her to look at him as well. “Are you really letting your father decide your future like that?”

“As if I have a choice!”

“You do!” It’s not like Ingrid to give up like this. It’s making him even more mad. “You do have a choice. You want to be a knight! Not some Crest-baby making wife.”

“My father…” She shows him the worn sleeve of the robe “Couldn’t afford a robe for me, so he gave me his new one.” His  _ new  _ one? “He has done so much for me…”

“All because you have a Crest!” He knows too well what it’s like.

Ingrid shakes her head. “I need to repay him.”

Sylvain kneels on the ground in front of her. Her bare legs are in front of him, so close to his touch. He leaves his hands close to his body, balls his hands into fists.

“Repay him by being the best knight you can be.”   
Her lips tremble. Her beautiful green eyes look lost for a second. Ingrid covers her face with her hands and her body shakes with a sob.

“Oh, crap. I made you cry, didn’t I?”

He usually enjoys it. He enjoys seeing beautiful faces getting ugly for him, getting a taste of their own medicine. Not when it’s Ingrid.

“These are happy tears.” She shows him her face, red and wet and wrecked. “You’re right. I want to become one of Dimitri’s knights, together with you and Felix.”

“Took you enough time.” Sylvain cracks a smile. “Now, before you worry about becoming a knight… how about you apologize to Felix?”

“Yes, I…” she nods. “ I will.”

When Sylvain comes back to Ingrid’s room with a basket of bread and cheese, she’s fully dressed and is toying with Felix’s hair tie. She looks like her usual self, save for the puffy eyes.

Sylvain leaves the basket on the table. “You still have that?”

“I wanted to leave it on his door handle, but… that would have been cowardly of me.”

“Are you ready to face the beast? I told the others to let him climb up the stairs first.”

“How thoughtful of you, Sylvain.”

Steps echo in the hall. Sylvain gestures for her to go forward, and she leaves her room, closing the door behind her back. Sylvain pushes his ear against the wood.

“Felix.”

“What do you want?”

While Sylvain can only listen to them, he knows them well enough to see their faces, awkward and frowning.

“I need to give this back.”

“...” 

_ Very eloquent, Felix. _

“You also have my apologies.”

“Mmh.”

“ _ Mmh _ ?”

“Want me to say that I’m sorry, too? Because I’m not.”

“Nothing of the sort.”

“Good. Come spar with me in two hours… and tie your hair properly.”

Sylvain opens the door to congratulate them, and he doesn’t miss Felix’s weird glance.

*

_ Dear Bernadetta, _

_ The latest chapter of your novel was captivating. I couldn’t stop thinking about it for days.  _

_ None of the lady knights of yore are ever the main characters of their tales. I have always wished to know more about them and their trysts. _

_ Your unique perspective is refreshing. I would love to know what inspires you so much! _

_ Some of the things Seriane said in this chapter reminded me a bit of a classmate of mine. Could it be…? _

_ Sincerely,  _

_ Sylvain _

  
  


_ Dear Sylvain, _

_ I’m really glad you liked it! If you’re wondering why this package is so bulky, it’s because I attached the first draft of the next chapter. Just… please, don’t talk to me in person about it. _

_ Do you remember when I was skipping my training and Ingrid kicked down my door to drag me to the Knights' Hall? I started writing this novel that very same evening. _

_ Best, _

_ Bernie _

Sylvain crumples the letter in his hand, before a pang of guilt makes him sigh. It’s not Bernadetta’s fault.

But if Seriane with the long, blonde braid is based on Ingrid, then the brooding and mysterious Alexi must be based on Felix, and they kissed in the latest chapter.

_ What is this ugly feeling? _

*

Garreg Mach is invaded. Professor Byleth loses her life. They all go back to their territories.

House Gaspard sides with the Empire, and they stop hearing from Ashe.

House Dominic follows, and Annette goes into hiding. Mercedes mentions her in her letters, using a code name. After a while, she starts mentioning a chivalrous young man with a knack for archery, and Sylvain breathes a sigh of relief.

Dimitri is executed, but his body is never found. Nobody believes him dead.

  
House Fraldarius leads the pocket of resistance against the Dukedom of Faerghus. House Gautier lends soldiers to the cause; the poorer House Galatea can only spare a few men.

Felix cuts Ingrid’s hair with a candle as sole source of light. They are marching towards Charon territory and the supplies are running low.

Ingrid twirls the long locks that still frame her face, while Sylvain watches, fists close and itching. “Are you not going to cut these?”

“I’ll braid them. I want to spare your old man a headache.” Sylvain has never seen Felix be more gentle with anything or anyone. “Count Galatea can be quite vexing.”

Ingrid chuckles. Her tenacity is all Galatea.

Felix completes his work with some pins. “You can pretend to have long hair, if the need arises… and it won’t be in the way.”

Sylvain pretends to not know who the pins belong to—Felix’s mother.

The three of them fight together on the frontlines. Rodrigue, impressed by Ingrid’s capabilities, puts her in charge of some of his men when her soldiers need to go home and harvest the fields.

Lúin and the Lance of Ruin twist and glow, ominous, on the battlefield.

The Millenium Festival is just around the corner.

*

On their way to Garreg Mach, Sylvain and Ingrid take turns to carry Felix on the back of their horse or pegasus.

It’s Sylvain’s turn to entertain their friend, while Ingrid is ahead, scouting.

“You only cut her hair so it wouldn’t fly in your face.”

The forest smells fresh and untouched by war. Their journey has been a salve on their weary selves.

“...have you ever experienced being whipped by a braid for twenty minutes straight?”

Felix is serving him an opening on a silver platter. “Kink—ouch!” Did Felix just flick his head? “At least you didn’t jab a finger in my sides. Character development.”

“You are wearing armor, dumbass. And I’m on the horse as well.”

They reach a small clearing and Sylvain slows down the horse. The sound of flapping wings announces Ingrid’s presence. 

She beams at them. “I can’t wait to see the others.”

Felix answers her with his usual enthusiasm. “Do you really think they will come?”

“Unlike you, I have exchanged letters with Mercie. She’s on her way, and she’s bringing Annie as well. Ashe is helping Gilbert with something, but I’m sure he’ll come!”

“Only those two won’t make it…”

Dimitri and Dedue...

Sylvain’s almost surprised. “Felix… is that regret in your voice?”

“Regret? For the boar? Never.”

“They never found Dimitri’s body.” Sylvain corrects him. “He’s still alive and frolicking for all we know.”

“It’s all thanks to Dedue and the men of Duscur,” adds Ingrid.

“I almost hear praise in your voice.” Sylvain is once again surprised. “I thought you hated the people of Duscur.”

“I thought you hated women, given how you treat them, yet look at you, speaking to one!”

That effectively shuts him up. Felix chuckles and Sylvain shoves his elbow into his side, in an attempt to look offended.

“The people of Duscur don’t forget their debts—that’s what Dedue told me, many years ago. They rebelled on the same day His Majesty was to be executed.” Ingrid, on top of her pegasus, looks at the horizon with a warm smile. “Lord Rodrigue himself told us that Dimitri’s cell was empty, and that Dedue was keeping the guards at bay.”

*

Dimitri might be mad, but Byleth hasn’t given up on him. None of them have.

It hurts to watch. His leer makes Sylvain feel small.

Still, he believes that he’s still there, under the thick pelt that covers his heart.

*

“If I hear you groan one more time I’m going to stab you.” Felix points his sword at him. “I mean it. Spar with me instead of moping.”

Sylvain groans again. The training grounds are a terrible hiding spot. “Is that your solution to everything?”

“Sparring? It works.”

“Not when you have love problems, no. It doesn’t.” He still accepts a training lance, weighs it in his hands.

“We’re at war, Sylvain. You have better things to worry about.”

“The war will end one day.”

They assume their battle stances. 

Felix, who has better things to do than wait for an opening, tries to carve one himself. “Love problems, huh?”

Sylvain parries a slash and sidesteps a thrust.

“You, interested in my woes?”

Does Felix actually want to help him out? His training sword touches Sylvain’s neck. “If it helps you focus.”

Of course. He wants to help him so they can  _ spar _ , not because he actually cares. 

_ Keep telling yourself that, Felix. _ _   
_ “I told someone we would best friends forever.”

Felix looks at him disgusted. “What are you, five?”

Now that he thinks about it, Sylvain made a similar promise with a much smaller and cuter Felix.

“Yeah, I… made a mistake.” Sylvain slouches. “I want to be more than friends.”

“Is that what you tell all those women before you break their hearts?”

Sylvain shakes his head vigorously. “Not this time. I don’t want to break her heart. That... would break mine.”

Felix claps with a tight lipped smile. “You almost sound functional.”

“Felix…”

“If you’re looking for advice, I don’t have any for you.” He raises his training sword above his head, ready to strike down. “If it makes you feel serious about sparring… imagine me as your rival.”

That’s almost too easy. The rage that is always with him wakes up, regards Felix as an obstacle, and flares up, boils hot.

The minor Crest of Gautier activates and Sylvain slams his wooden spear against Felix’s training sword.

Both weapons break in an explosion of splinters.

*

They retake Fhirdiad, then they liberate Derdriu. Victory seems just around the corner.

The monastery is bustling with merchants and soldiers and wares. Now that they’re winning, every noble House is eager to send men and resources.

The Victors, a merchant family from the ex-Alliance, lend them a significant amount of troops. Ignatz, the small guy with the glasses from the Golden Deer House—who is not so small anymore—leads the mercenaries.

The hired help joins Shamir’s battalion and Ignatz is instead put behind a canvas. His beautiful paintings are but empty tokens to be sent to Counts and Margraves in exchange for the lost lives of their men.

Sylvain finds the practice disgusting, but the man himself tolerable enough.

The market is busy as always, and one of the Southern merchants has some paint on display. Ignatz is sampling it on the pages of a sketchbook.

Sylvain wants to know what his deal is, so he looks over his shoulder.

A series of notes frames the first sketch—it’s for the von Hevring family, a portrait of Saint Cethleann that looks strikingly similar to Flayn. Does Seteth know about it?

The second painting is for House von Varley. A familiar name, Seriane—the heroine of Bernadetta’s novel—is written above a sketch of Ingrid, with a lance in one hand and a winged helm in the other. The hair that is usually tied in a braid is flowing down to cover her chest.

Sylvain’s blood boils.

“Hey Ignatz. Fancy seeing you here.”

The painter jumps up like a startled cat and hides the sketchbook from sight. “Oh, hi Sylvain. What brings you here?”

“Well, I head that women  _ love  _ a man who can paint, and my technique could use some polish. Thought I’d ask you for some pointers.”

Ignatz seems confused. “Women love a man who can paint?” 

Sylvain grins. “Is that not the case?”

“It doesn’t exactly coincide with my experience…”

“Aw, come on. Don’t you have girls  _ throwing  _ themselves at you to be your models?”

Ignatz looks so uncomfortable that Sylvain takes a step back to give him some space. “Not really… I usually approach them myself and ask them if they’re OK. Most say no.”

Which means Ingrid said yes?

His rage groans and quiets down. Ignatz is not a threat.

“Oh, well. Too bad. Guess painting’s not for me, then.”

Ignatz gives him a puzzled smile and Sylvain leaves him be.

He needs to find a hobby or a productive way to deal with whatever he’s feeling.

* 

_ Dear Sylvain, _

_ I pray for your safety in battle. The frontlines are not for me… you will be better without me being a dead weight. I hope that the Varley men that joined your ranks will be safe and instrumental to your victory—they are the best archers the Empire had to offer, before crumbling down. _

_ During these five years, I completed the manuscript that you used to enjoy. Seriane’s story has changed much because of the war. May it give you some solace, despite its new, bitter feel. _

_ Hopeful, _

_ Bernadetta _

Bernadetta is right about the novel feeling different. Gone are Seriane’s girlish musings, gone are the long descriptions of the broody Alexi. She has added another character, the optimistic Jordis. A knight in shining armor, a perfect foil of Alexi.

When Jordis is introduced to the reader, Sylvain feels hopeful. Is he based on him? Is he the new love interest of the valiant lady knight?

Jordis is a character of pure radiance, the sincerest of knights. He doesn’t enjoy ruin like Sylvain does. He doesn’t feel the need to break the fake smile on other people’s faces.

At the end of the novel, Sylvain’s eyes sting. A part of him wants to share Seriane’s tale with Ingrid, because she would love the valiant lady knight and her resolve and strength. Another part of him wants to shield her from the tragic ending and spare her the tears.

“Oh.”

A single drop falls on the  _ Fin _ on the page, makes the fine penmanship smudged.

Now he understands. He’s in love with Ingrid.

*

He messed up when he saw Ingrid at the cathedral. Bathed in the ethereal light, she looked devout and breathtaking. Sylvain couldn’t say a single sentence without sounding like an idiot—but he managed to call her beautiful and make her blush. Those are good signs, right? 

Who is he fooling.

_ I’m supposed to be the expert, the Grandmaster Flirt, the Fisher of Women, Margrave Desire 69, and I’m completely useless when it comes to her. _

He needs to plan his next move carefully.

*

Sylvain is not a fan of the opera, but it helps with troop morale—the feast open to the nearby villages and the dances are a chance for the soldiers to relax and get some well deserved rest.

King Dimitri is going to march on Enbarr, where they have cornered the Emperor. If it wasn’t for all the Crest Stone abominations Edelgard was ready to use and the razing of Fort Merceus, they would have conquered the Adrestian capital already.

Even more nobles have switched sides, showering the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus with men and resources—the opera evening is sponsored by Count Gloucester, who only now truly believes they’re going to win.

Ingrid is looking positively sublime in her pale green dress; she’s currently shoving fish sticks in her mouth with gusto, like she hasn’t eaten in three days. Sylvain is pretty sure she’s wearing one of Dorothea’s many stage outfits—she seems unaware of the low cut on the sides, that exposes just enough of the soft curve of her breasts to be tasteful, but it’s making Sylvain think anything  _ but _ tasteful things.

Green is definitely her color, and she even let her hair down for the occasion. The long locks that frame her face gleam in the candlelight of the dining hall.

_ You can do it, man. You’re good at talking to women. _

Sylvain walks up to her. How long has he been staring? Where are his manners...

Ingrid is cleaning up the plate, not leaving a single crumb behind. That is dedication.

“Oh, hey Sylvain.” She cleans the sides of her mouth with a cloth.

“Ingrid! Hi. You look… uhm. Good.”

A faint blush dusts her cheeks. “I had Dorothea help me with the evening preparations. I wanted to… put some effort in it. To celebrate, of course.”

_ Too bad Felix is not here to see you. Loser’s on patrol duty. _

Sylvain takes a chair and sits next to her. He steals a glance at her legs and Goddess gracious, what is that slit on the side that exposes her whole thigh, does she want to kill him?

The dining hall feels suddenly very stuffy. He hooks a finger in his jabot and loosens it a bit. “How’s the food?”

She fishes a small plate from a clean pile and stacks some fried vegetables on it. “Try the eggplant, it’s delicious.”

He takes the plate and stares at it. Sylvain is suddenly out of ideas. What should he talk about? The ongoing war? He’s no party pooper. The opera? He was asleep during half of it. Maybe he could try one of Alois’ ice breakers.

He tries a fried eggplant slice. It’s thin and crunchy, and very salty. “Not bad.”

A fish stick pushes against his lips. “Try the fish while you still have the eggplant taste in your mouth.” She gives him a lovely smile. “It’s divine.”

_ No, you are. _

Is Ingrid… feeding him? Sylvain meekly opens his mouth and she shoves the entire fish stick in there.

“Hey!”

“Don’t talk while eating.” She takes one for herself.

He gulps it down before protesting. “Gimme half of it, not a whole one!”

Ingrid flashes him a devilish smile and wiggles another fish stick in front of his face. And just like that, she devours it in one gulp.

He focuses on the food on the plate, trying desperately to  _ not  _ think about what she just did with her mouth. That’s a first for him.

_ Damn, Sylvain. You are a loser. _

Once both of their plates are clean, Ingrid stands up. The slit of her dress should be illegal.

“Sylvain, do you want to dance?”

Those six words are enough to make his poor heart do a somersault.

“Did you eat something expired and went mad? I thought you didn’t like dancing.”

He stands up and gives her his hand, because she just offered him the perfect opportunity to make a fool of himself, and he’s not one to back down from a challenge.

He wants to  _ feel  _ her.

“I practiced with Mercie.”

They walk, hand in hand, to the side of the reception hall. Other couples are waiting for the next song to start, including an incredibly red Ashe and an equally embarrassed Annette.

Sylvain gives Ashe the thumbs up and the other man grimaces. He never received dancing lessons and he’s going in there with Clumsemaster Annette…

Sylvain turns his attention back to his dancing companion, who’s looking around with shining eyes. “I hope you don’t expect to lead me.”

Even with heels, she’s shorter than him. She throws him what Sylvain would usually consider  _ bedroom eyes _ , but it’s Ingrid, so it must be something else. “I’m starting to think that you would like it.”

_ Would he?  _ Sylvain considers the possibility and concludes that yes, he would like being led by Ingrid. It would fit her personality quite well. Not like he can admit it out loud in public, he has a reputation to defend.

The music pauses and he’s quick to wrap one arm around her waist, slim and shapely. Ingrid places her hand on his shoulder, gently. The chandeliers are making her eyes sparkle; her lips have no right to look so soft and shiny, since they’re probably still covered in fry oil.

The music starts and they press their bodies together, striding in the ballroom.

Dancing is an art that requires focus, and he’s glad for the occasional clumsiness of the dancers around him—he needs to put some thoughts behind his moves, a perfect distraction from Ingrid’s cleavage in plain sight.

She, of course, has other plans in mind. “You have been really weird in the past months.”

He chuckles. “How so?”

“You stopped flirting with half of Fódlan’s populace.”

Sylvain grimaces and makes her spin once. The move makes her giggle, but it’s not enough to make her change topic. 

“Ever since you promised me that we’d be best friends… you’ve been either avoiding me, or bumbling nonsense.”

_ Goddess, she knows. _

“ _ I saw you _ eye the door just now.”

Sylvain may or may not have just considered his escape options. Having a conversation like this while dancing is horrible—he can’t run away, he needs to  _ dance  _ away, and bring her with him.

“Isn’t a man allowed to keep his pride intact?”

He makes her spin again, and when she slides back into his arms, she has that look on her face. The Ingrid expression. The disappointed arch of her eyebrows, mouth drawn in a thin line. Except this time, one corner is turned upwards.

“I need to do some self reflection if being around me is reason enough for you to run away.”

Sylvain starts to lead her to the side of the ballroom. 

“You know what I mean.”

“Nope, I don’t.” Her fierce tone is in stark contrast with her blushing cheeks. “Tell me.”

Once they reach the sidelines, they need to part. Sylvain lets his fingers linger on her waist, savoring her warmth. With renewed resolve, he keeps his hand around her own.

“Follow me.”

The Goddess Tower is unfortunately out of the question; Dimitri and Byleth have been using it as their love nest, and he hasn’t seen them in a while. Does he want to barge in? He likes being alive— he guides Ingrid to one of the many balconies of the Cathedral, dimly lit by a fire torch, and eerily quiet. 

Ingrid lies against the balustrade and pats the empty space next to her.

“No, I… need to stand.”

“To run away?”

“You would never forgive me if I did that.”

“You’re right.”

Sylvain gets closer, tempted to frame her body with his, but he knows better. 

The fire dances on the shimmers of Ingrid’s dress, envelops her bare skin in bright orange hues. The soft curve of her chest, the hard curve of her muscular arms. She’s beautiful and quiet. She’s powerful and knightly, and everything Sylvain loves and admires.

He places a hand on the balustrade, next to her, and she covers it with hers. That is what he needs to muster the courage to say the words.

“I am in love with you.”

Ingrid holds her breath in. Sylvain lowers her head. “I have been for… some years, I believe. I just didn’t know at the time. I hurt you just as I hurt all those other women.”

“Sylvain…” She squeezes his hand, but he needs to say it all.

“I thought we were the same. A stallion to stud and a mare to breed. I accepted that as my destiny, but you… you thrashed around, defied your father and never yielded. I admired that in you. Respected it.”

She cups his face. “Is that how you have been thinking of yourself for all this time?”

Sylvain nods. His throat feels tight, and his chest is aching for an answer.

“Sylvain, you are so much more than that.”

Her lips brush against his own. A touch soft like a pegasus’ feather.

“I won’t condone what you have done. You hurt those women… and I helped you get away with it for years. But you have a good heart.” She kisses him again. His arms are shaking. To ground himself, he places his hands on the balustrade, covering her body with his. “You are a wonderful friend. A kind man to those in need. A wonderful knight, tenacious and quick-witted.” Another soft kiss. 

“You never told me to give up on my dream and find a husband.” Who  _ dared  _ to say that to her? Scrap that, he knows who that is and he doesn’t want to think about him. “You always believed in me.”

Sylvain can’t take it anymore. He buries his head in her shoulder, holding her in his arms. Her scent envelops him, sweet and comforting, with just a hint of fish sticks.

“Who knew that you’d be the one with more experience in love.”

“Annette lent me some… romance novels.”

“How scandalous.”

“Some of the scenes were rather devious.”

He emerges from her long hair, chuckling. He feels like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. “How long have you known?”

She wraps her arms around his waist. “Ever since you called me beautiful, in the cathedral. Nobody has ever said that to me.”

“ _ Nonsense _ .” Fueled by indignation, he finally gets the courage to kiss her back. Still softly.

His eyes wander to the open sides of the dress, to the soft skin barely covered from the sheer material.

_ Not yet. _

His gaze drops lower, to her powerful thigh exposed by the slit in the dress.

Ingrid turns her head, bashful. “You’re looking at me like you want to devour me.”

“That… is not far from the truth.” He strokes her cheek, softly. “I won’t push my desires on you, Ingrid. I want you to be ready.”

A small smile forms on her face. She rests her head on his chest, and that simple gesture makes him feel the most powerful man in all of Fódlan. Ingrid  _ trusts  _ him. She is warm and soft and real against his body. Sylvain starts caressing her hair.

“You know, Ingrid… I still need to hear the three magic words from you.”

“I’m glad you’re going back to your normal self. You worried me silly. And… I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sylvain's PoV was quite tricky to get right, since I imagine him as hyper-aware of his own shortcomings, and rather down-to-Earth.  
This ended up being 100% self-indulgent and filled with headcanons; I wanted to add even MORE scenes, but they would have been unrelated to the romance and I wanted to keep the narrative tight.  
I hope you enjoyed it!  
EDIT: Made the title less edgy.


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